Capitol, We Have a Problem
by Harmlessly Weird
Summary: We all know the Gamemakers didn't react well to Katniss's nightlock. But we don't know much beyond that.
1. Chapter 1

**I, personally, like this one-shot. I don't know if you do. If you do, tell me! Review. If you don't, still tell me! Review. So review no matter what.**

"Hello? Mr. Crane!" I shout across the room. "Stop looking at the next mutt release! Look at _them_!"

Seneca turns. And swears. Loudly.

"What the ––– are they doing?" he says, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

We watch are the girl digs around in her pouch. The boy looks puzzled, slightly wary.

"They put the nightlock in that pouch," someone says in a hushed whisper.

"If she commits suicide for him the Denizens will love it," Maia says, grasping at a straw. I smile wanly. Maia is our newest Gamemaker. She is untrained, inexperienced, and doesn't realize the potential of this. The Denizens of the Capitol will _not_ love both of them dying, even if it's for each other.

"She's not killing just herself," I say, and turn up the volume.

She – Katniss Everdeen, our star, our Girl on Fire, our flame of love – offers the boy some nightlock. They exchange a few words.

Maia, Alayna, and Marcellus all gasp as they go back-to-back.

Seneca grabs one of his twenty-odd microphones clipped to the pockets all over his Head Gamemaker's suit.

"CLAUDIUS!" he thunders. Lania winces and covers her ears.

"What?" Claudius Templesmith sounds horrified.

"One." The boy and girl's voices blend, filling the room.

"STOP THEM!"

"Sir – President Snow says, blow them up!"

"I don't care what the ––ing president says! I said stop them!"

"Two."

"But sir –"

"Who's Head Gamemaker, Claudius?"

"Sir –"

"Kierana," Seneca tells me, "get it done."

"I can't, sir."

"Fine!" Claudius yells.

"Three!"

Oh, dear.

But Claudius stops them. I almost sag in relief before…

"Seneca."

The voice – the hissing voice – fills the room, reverberating from every speaker.

"Mr. President, sir!"

"I hear from our dear Claudius that you…went _against_ my wishes."

"Sir, it was the only option."

"Miss Kierana Valance, you are appointed Head Gamemaker until we comb through your records and appoint a different one. As for _you_, Seneca Crane, we need to talk. Make your way to my quarters."

Seneca, looking dumbstruck, gets up.

"Please take off your uniform and give it to Miss Valance."

Still silent, Seneca pulls off the suit, revealing a plain white shirt and cotton pants. He numbly hands it to me.

I take it just as numbly, and pull it on.

"Thank you, Seneca. Now, come talk, and let's seal your fate for that little mistake."


	2. Chapter 2

Killed. President Snow _killed_ Seneca. In front of us.

Seneca wasn't a bad person, really. He wasn't the one to call for a death. He did his job. We all did. And Snow killed him.

I look in my mirror. Saggy bags under my eyes. Wispy, limp, unstyled brown hair. Frown lines around my brow.

_Nice job, Kierana. A previous Head Gamemaker looks like _this_._

I'm glad I handed it off to Plutarch almost a year ago. It was too much responsibility, too much risk to be Head Gamemaker.

I leave my rooms and find Alayna. Together we leave.

The training room is quiet. Finally, Gloss enters, and everything begins.

We wait until we get to Peeta Mellark. He gives us the death stare – fairly normal, we've come to expect that from victors – and grabs all the jars of paint. Very well then. Painting. His talent.

But then we see _what_ he paints, and we excuse him immediately. _Immediately_.

We clean it up ourselves, making sure none of the cleaning men or women with their loose lips see Rue Oriole on the floor.

Katniss Everdeen comes in.

_Why'd _she_ have to be District 12's only female victor? That rebel. She-who-killed-Seneca._

She looks at the ground, at the quickly covered painting. I draw in a deep breath. Will she uncover the painting?

But no. She takes up a piece of rope and I exhale. _Showing off what Finnick Odair or Magara Lyst taught her, I guess_.

She ties a noose. _A noose_. I feel Marcellus tighten beside me. _What?_

She goes to the dummy, nooses it. And hangs it.

Okay, then. I can live with that. Violent little girl, isn't she?

But then she goes to the camouflage station. She picks up a bottle of dye and goes to the dummy. She begins to write on it.

Okay, whose name will she write? Plutarch's? Snow's? Someone else she must hate?

The answer is _D_. None of the above. She painstakingly traces that name and moves aside. Marcellus and Alayna knock their wineglasses off the table.

It says _Seneca Crane_.

She stands there quietly, expecting us to absorb the implications of this. And we do.

She knew about the execution. Someone in authority talked to her. Who? The president would be the most obvious choice, but Snow…must hate her as much as she hates him. Anyone else went nowhere near her.

Silence.

Finally, Plutarch breaks it and says, "You are excused, Miss Everdeen."

She bows politely and turns. Then she throws her jar of dye over her shoulder. It splatters over the word _Crane_. My own wineglass drops from my fingers. Plutarch mutters several obscenities on my left. "She's singled herself out."

We will have revenge on Miss Everdeen. Absolutely.

**In case it wasn't clear, Magara Lyst is Mags.**


End file.
